


Novi et Veteris

by IuvenesCor



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Coping, Gen, Memory Loss, Mild Spoilers, Post Regeneration, changes, the time of the doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/pseuds/IuvenesCor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>She had the shadows of memories from times when every face he wore was hers, but not</em> this <em>face. Not whomever it was that she would now discover behind those beautiful, sad eyes.</em></p>
<p>Change is a shockwave— and Clara is caught in its wake.</p>
<p>(Mild spoilers for The Time of the Doctor.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Novi et Veteris

**Author's Note:**

> My first work of the New Year! (I actually began writing the first draft at one a.m. New Year's Day.) I thought it might be fitting to write about the new Doctor on a day of new beginnings. :)
> 
> Not beta read, so any mistakes are mine alone and I apologize for them. I do not own Doctor Who (if I did, I would look at all of the dialogue for Twelve and know exactly how he's going to be characterized.) All recognizable characters and scenarios are being borrowed under fair use.
> 
> Happy reading!

_Novi_ _et Veteris_

_(_ “New and Old”)

 

 

"Well... _that_ was an adventure!"  
  
Clara wasn't entirely sure where she was. Her vision was skating in circles, causing the most tremendous headache and stirring up a healthy dose of nausea. It was all nearly to the extent that nothing could actually prove to her that she was even sitting upright— but she was willing to suspend her disbelief and assumed that she must have been.  
  
In a corner where the messy circles of sight intersected, she could see the Doctor— the new Doctor; was he still _her_ Doctor?— clambering to his feet, dusting off his clothes. He was entirely preoccupied with jolting away from colonies of sparks and fanning at thin, wavering pillars of smoke pouring from the console. By the time he had poked and prodded and blathered on to his heart's content about the unfortunate size of his spleen and how terribly oblong one of his still poorly-colored kidneys was, Clara had gathered enough of her bearings and slowly, quite cautiously, stood.  
  
"Oh. Are you all right?" he finally said, leaving a proclamation about his gallbladder unfinished.  
  
She shook her head gently, as a way to rattle her brain back into order rather than as a negative. "Yeah, I'm...I'm just swell. Though that was one hell of a rough landing."  
  
His eyes— those same eyes, though perhaps not in color; somehow newer, while still older than they had ever been— narrowed, and he took a step towards her. "I wasn't talking about the landing. Are you _all right_?"  
  
The intent in his words was much clearer the second time. He was not asking for a report on her physical well-being, but rather on her _emotional_ status. If she were honest, there was no proper response to such a question. Oh yes, this man was the Doctor, but it would not be the same; he was _the_ Doctor, not _her_ Doctor. Granted, she had the shadows of memories from times when every face he wore was hers and every voice was a welcome sound, but the saga of those lives began with a very ancient, very clever boy, with the frame of a stickman and mousey hair and a bowtie for every occasion. Not _this_ face. Not whomever it was that she would now discover behind those beautiful, sad eyes.   
  
But the search for an answer could wait; surely it all would be remedied with time and traveling alike. She did, however, have her own urgent question to ask:  
  
"...Do you remember me?"  
  
Gently pressing his lips into a thin line, the Doctor smiled, looking just a little bit lost. "I'm still trying to remember _me_ ," he calmly lamented. "Or perhaps I shouldn't go to the trouble."  
  
Breath caught suddenly in her lungs and she was forced to hold her tongue. Though it would mean the recovery of pains that she could not even begin to imagine…she _needed_ him to remember.  
  
With naught but the sound of his footsteps on the floor, he tenderly stared into her eyes, still with that awe-inspiring way of reaching to her very soul. "But," he resumed, quite seriously, "I remember that you're a friend, a nice one, and that you must have a very good reason to be so sad." He lifted one hand and gently brushed her cheek, spreading apart the tears that still rested there. "And that I'll do anything to make it up to you."  
  
She tried to smile. It wasn't hard, but it was a slow process. Sometimes she would really like to think that he thought of her as more than just "a nice friend" (as if it weren’t obvious enough once they’d come to Christmas— now, would he remember _that_ part?); but it was another trouble for another day. All she found herself wanting was a firm hug.  
  
To her severe disappointment, the Doctor did not deliver an embrace. Was he that different, or was he still unsure about her? (Or about _himself_?) She tried to read the message of his eyes before he turned away, which was no longer very hard to do. She read apprehension. She read exhaustion.  
  
But, unless it was strictly wishful thinking on her part, she did see _her_ Doctor in there, tucked away with care.  
  
And like her Doctor— without the coil-spring energy he once radiated, but still with the glimpses of age and impossible experiences bleeding through— he immediately turned away and began to announce his plans. Or rather, lack of them.  
  
"Now, we have to figure out what to do next. Was there any sort of...post-landing protocol?"  
  
This time, her head-shaking meant a clear _no_.  
  
"So...hmm. Well." He held his chin atop his fist, pondering the concept. "I guess we'll just have to— _augh_!—"  
  
With the strangled sound, he had taken hold of the console violently, eyes drawn down toward the floor and closed in pain.  
  
With any hesitation cast away in an instant, Clara scrambled to his side. "Doctor? What is it— what's wrong? Tell me!"  
  
"Oh," he strained weakly, "it's...nothing much..."  
  
He doubled over even further, and Clara was compelled to ask him where the nearest medical kit was— if he even had a proper medical kit, she wasn’t sure; but what was a man with the title of Doctor, real physician or not, without a medical kit?— but his tight grimace soon loosened, and he lifted his head.  
  
From his lips came a faint stream of gold jetting into the air, its hues fading as it dispersed, gone as soon as it had come.  
  
Clara had never seen anything quite like it before, but by the time the Doctor had managed his explanation, she formed a well-based conclusion as to what the display was.  
  
"Residual regeneration energy. I remember that part well— always hurts. Don't like it much." His face turned sour as he added, "Probably will be worse this time, considering the amount of energy that I took in."   
  
But he pushed himself away from the support of the console and stood (as) straight (as he could). "Ah, but never mind that: I'll be in tip-top shape in no time. If only I could properly remember how to fly this gorgeous thing, we could go celebrate."  
  
Celebrate? Clara certainly didn't feel like celebrating quite yet. She needed time and a very, _very_ long nap. In honesty, she was ecstatic that the Doctor was not dead, had not died, would not die, but was here with her— yet she found it reasonable not to cope with the change in the same way he might: flitting off to the next adventure as if nothing had ever changed. She knew he could do that in two heartbeats; but she wasn’t sure that she could. Not immediately.  
  
He discovered the concern on her face and tried to change her disposition. "You must admit, this is something very exciting for me. New New New—" (she lost count of how many times he said "new") "—New me. There was never supposed to be this many of me, but now there is! It's something I'd like to celebrate if I could. We could always go to a New Year's Day party. That would be fitting, I’m sure: new year, new Doctor." He paused, expectancy pouring from his face. "Would you come with me?"  
  
Clara bit her lip. She couldn't.  
  
Oh, but how could she _ever_ pass it up?  
  
Her nod sparked a grand smile on his face. "Wonderful! I'll just find the TARDIS manual and read up, then— oh— problem—"  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
He was grimacing again. "Well, first off, I may be in a bit of pain yet. But don't you worry, I'll be fine. Second: I remember what I did with the manual."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Supernova."  
  
Clara narrowed her eyes. "Supernova?"  
  
"Yes, supernova. 'Threw-it-in-a', actually. But that's all right! I'm remembering rather quickly; it should—"   
  
He was forced to halt his words by another stream of energy. The groan he made afterward could easily be described as pitiful.  
  
Taking action, Clara put her arm around his back and guided him away from the console. "You are not doing anything but resting. After all that back there, you need it."   
  
"Well...it is a sound idea."  
  
She nodded. "I'll make you some tea once we've found you a bed."  
  
Though he hesitated, clearly still wanting to _do things_ , he began to follow her lead. "Perfect, actually,” he murmured thoughtfully. “You haven't done this before, have you? I remember...wait, no. Never mind. She was blonde. The mother— she made the tea— and she was _grumpy_." After a pause, his voice grew soft. "Definitely not you."  
  
Clara smiled patiently, wondering if perhaps one of her selves had been there for him before— or _after_ , if he didn't recall her being there; though this Doctor didn’t exist then, did he?— but timelines and realities were silly and trivial (and frankly, it was all making her headache much worse.) She was herself, here, now, and that was all that mattered.  


  
  
<> <> <>  
  


 

  
She was certain that she had left the Doctor with the strict instructions of lying down (with the threat of hog-tying him if he didn't), but it occurred to her far too late that the Time Lord had some sort of grudge against the art of listening.  
  
She had expected the trip to find him to be an incredibly long one; various jaunts through the halls of the TARDIS had often left her lost and, as a result, quite cross with the ship and her winding passages, kicking the walls and scolding her for being a stubborn cow _again_.   
  
However, unbelievably, it seemed that the TARDIS was actually guiding her along to find the wayward man. Their sudden teamwork meant that it only took a few minutes at best until Clara found light trickling out of a half-opened door.  
  
Inside was the Doctor, only fitted with a pair of trousers (he… _was_ wearing them, wasn’t he?), sifting through long metal racks that bore all manner of clothing. Clara stepped further into the room— and nearly missed taking a collared shirt to the face— thrusting her hands on her hips. "What do you think you're doing? You're supposed to be in bed."  
  
He faced her, blinking curiously. "Oh, hello, Clara. You see, I remember your name front and back now. Even sideways and zig-zagged." Pulling a jumper from the rack, he questioned, "What about this?" But before she even opened her mouth, he threw it back with the other shirts he'd rejected. "Where's the tea?"  
  
"On the nightstand, next to the bed _that you should be in_. C'mon, it's getting cold— and I don't need you collapsing on the floor."  
  
"Ah, I'm fine," he dismissed, "I have at least enough time to find an ensemble before..." His voice trailed off, and he wobbled sideways, clinging to the clothes rack. With a drowsy and reluctant acceptance that looked quite comical on his features, he shrugged. "Well, maybe I'd better lie down for a spell..."  
  
"Told you," Clara confirmed, taking his arm once again. "Now let's go."  


  
  
<> <> <>  
  


 

  
She wanted to lie down in her usual bed, but she couldn't bear to leave him alone.  
  
She had a sneaking suspicion that the TARDIS would find a way to let her know if there was anything that needed doing that the ship couldn't do herself, yet that wasn't enough. She needed to be by his side. Though she hadn’t lived them— hadn't even thought of them going by— she had hundreds of years of not being there for him to atone for. Perhaps it wasn't her fault, but there was no way to eradicate the quiet whispers that suggested _maybe it is_.  
  
His chest rose and fell in rhythm— the pace altering slightly with each fleeting remnant of the regeneration energy— and it was comforting.  If anything, he seemed relaxed as he slept, and that was exactly what he needed. Few were the times when she could look into his eyes and say that he was truly at peace.  
  
True, he might not have _actually_ been at peace in that moment: there was no way to really know. But as she watched from her little chair she liked to think that, among the dreams that he once told her he did indeed have, he was having only the good dreams now.   
  
Her eyelids began to drift down, and she wondered what this new chapter would bring. _New_ : it was a strange concept to grasp now. New face, new voice, and apparently a plethora of new and interesting internal organs— what else about him would be new?  
  
She had finally accepted that, though it still would take her more time, she would let him begin again without trying to hold him back. After all, he deserved all that and more. Whether he still wanted her around or not, whether she would join the ranks of those he'd left behind (as he had already tried to do with her), she would always do everything in her power to be there for him. He was too precious to ever just slip away.  
  
New or old, he was still her Clever Boy, and she would be his Impossible Girl, no matter what the changes brought.  
  
Giving her mind to sleep's beckoning, she smiled softly.   
  
 _It’ll_ always _be us._

 

_fin_


End file.
